Flirting With a Dress
by The Atomic Cafe
Summary: MacStella. Her dress is the color of wine, and the music paints the floor with their steps.


**Flirting With a Dress**

**By Dimgwrthien**

_Disclaimer: I do not own anything pertaining to CSI:NY or affiliates._

_Ma per cio che giammai di questo fondo/ non torno vivo alcun, s'i'odo il vero/ senza tema d'infamia ti rispondo._

_(but since no one has ever returned alive from this depth,  
if what I hear be true, without fear of infamy I answer you.")_

_- Dante, Inferno XXVII, 61-66_

Stella flirts with the dress, an intimate moment that she can enjoy by herself. It's the color of a rich red wine. Her hands move the delicate pearls around her neck in double layers that hold the dress up as a collar. The fabric, satin and smooth, run up her legs, her stomach, her chest. She feels free from the restraints of the pants at work. It's nice to be a woman. Even if she's a broken woman, a woman who's seen a devil of a man pass by her within the past few months, it's nice to be a woman for once.

Her jobs keeps her in a man's place, somewhere that her friends told her that she would be in if she kept it up. She doesn't mind. Most of the time.

One of the perks of her job knocks at the door, and she answers slowly, feeling the fabric brush her as she walks, letting the shoes slip against her pantyhose. Mac is there, tailored up in a tuxedo, giving her a shy smile. He's embarrassed to be there, embarrassed to show up as Stella's date to her friend's wedding.

_And if it hadn't been for Frankie_, is the only reaction she's had to the situation so far. However, she never thinks about _I could have been with him_. She can only think _now I have Mac on my side._ It's a wonderful thought, one that she treasures as she looks him over, examines him. He's a broken man, too, with the scar on his neck that he had only just taken the bandage off of, and the scar that she knew was on his chest. Funny how broken souls attract like glue.

She gives him a smile back, one that lifts her lips and numbs her cheeks. He greets her, asks if she's ready. She only fingers the pearls around her neck and nods, let outside.

In New York, there are jeans. Stella feels embarrassed but pleased walking among them as they leave her apartment building. It's Cinderella all over again, letting the jealous be jealous, letting the sloppy be sloppy. She just keeps the arm inside of Mac's warm arm and gets into the car he offers her.

He drives slowly, weaving around the traffic, keeping silent. Stella sees how stoic Mac is, sees how his eyes are trained at the road and nowhere near her. She wants to be looked at, though. _What a silly thing_, she thinks, _to assume that I don't want you to see me. Otherwise, I would have invited Danny or Don or Sheldon or maybe even that David across the hall._

Stella, however, does not complain. It would be asking for too much, she figures. She feels it's enough of a comfort to feel the brush of his jacket against her bare arm on the arm rest.

Mac leads Stella inside, taking her by the arm again. They sit through a wedding, sit close together. Stella thinks she can feel Mac's breath on her. It's a comforting feel, much more comforting that the breath of the last man who did that as he greedily tied her and dragged her.

Letting herself bask in the presence of Mac, Stella considers what it would be like to be on that alter. Jennifer, her friend in the white dress, looks calm and beautiful, staring Jake in the eyes. The lights play off of her like an angel.

Once the two join in a holy union, the reception begins. It's just as lovely as the wedding, even if it isn't as refined. Stella watches everyone, studying how they speak. She joins in some conversations, careful to keep Mac close enough to her.

It's when the dancing starts that she really smiles.

The bride and groom, happy and young, start moving around the floor. "Nothing Compares to You" plays over the floor, sweeping it with the low beginning, the uprising of the woman's voice, falling, rising, until it seems that the world revolved around the croons of "Since you been gone, I can do whatever I want…"

Once the fading drums died away, the deep voice of Elvis filled the room. Stella smiles to herself, remembering how much the two seem to like the singer.

Stella sits up and invites Mac to dance with her. There's no point left in talking with the people around; they've all moved to the dance floor.

Mac looks nervous, but he gives her a small nod. The song is slow enough that Stella walks him out into the sea of bodies and fabric, then leans into him. His touch is cold and distant at first, uneasy, tensed as though every muscle jumped at once. Stella touches his back, lightly, letting herself fall into him. He eases up a bit, though not as much as she wished. _It's a wedding_, she thinks in the privacy of her mind. _Even if you don't know anyone but me, ease up. It's a celebration. Relax. Release yourself._

Stella presses her head into his shoulder, letting the sensitivity of her breasts feel out his chest, feeling better than she had in weeks. For once, there is no work to deal with, no problems, no deaths, no late-night visits to the hospital where her only lifeline was a cup of coffee.

Mac, without easing up the slightest or letting her know that he's fine with her, whispers into the woman's ear.

"I wish I could have seen you up there on the alter."


End file.
